Guarding Meg
by Oonagh
Summary: Meg Thatcher suddenly finds the concrete foundations of her life shaken by mysterious pictures and the kind of threats that have to be taken seriously...FraserMeg
1. Chapter 1

Guarding Meg

By Oonagh

Author's Note: This is by way of an introduction to a WIP, which will probably be quite long. It's the first Due South story I've ever attempted, so I'd appreciate reviews to let me know how I'm doing. Timeline-wise I guess this would probably fit in anytime after ATQH.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

In the muted light of a Chicago sunset Margaret Thatcher's hair shone brightly as it swung gently around her shoulders. The man with the camera smiled. These would be fantastic photos. Stunning. Impactful. And frightening.

He snapped down on the camera trigger, smiling slightly at the idea of how her face would look when she opened the envelope he had bought and carefully addressed that morning. It wouldn't be pleasant opening a letter and staring at photos of yourself standing in your own apartment, in your own living room. But then that was the idea. The first step in the plan. The first of many steps.

The man's smile widened as his target moved into her bedroom. She was making this so easy; maybe she didn't realise how clearly you could see through her windows with the curtains open. Or maybe she just didn't care who saw what – with the family she was from that wouldn't surprise him at all. Either way, it didn't matter to him. The more intimate the photos the better, as far as he was concerned. His finger clicked down again, his eyes focused on the viewfinder, the smile still on his face as he ran the plan over again in his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Guarding Meg

By Oonagh

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Benton Fraser opened the door of his office-cum-bedroom carefully, glad of the oil he'd applied to the hinges the week before. His father had always taught him the vital importance of home maintenance and Fraser was glad he'd listened. Although, upon reflection, Ben realised that his father had probably not foreseen that a little WD40 would someday save his son from a rampaging RCMP Inspector. But still, the last four days had shown the importance of taking parental advice and Fraser resolved to thank his father the next time he made an appearance.

Sticking his head out through the silently-opening door Fraser checked that the corridor was clear and, hat in hand, walked quickly toward the front door, followed closely by Deifenbaker. He had his hand on the handle and was offering thanks for his escape when a piercing shout shot through his head, rattling his brain.

"Where the hell do you think you are going, Constable?" Fraser winced before turning around to face the source of the shout.

"I just got a call from Ray. He got a call from Fran. Well not a call exactly. More of a note. They're not talking you see. Which makes things awkward at work as I'm sure you can imagine. But anyway…" Fraser could hear the words coming from his mouth and he knew they were nonsense, but he just couldn't stop them. Inspector Thatcher had always had that effect on him for some reason. He was almost glad when her harsh voice cut across his rambling.

"My office. Now." Inspector Thatcher spun around on her heels and marched into her office. Fraser sighed and followed her. So much for a clean escape. He closed the door behind himself – if he was going to be yelled at he wanted to make sure the whole consulate couldn't hear every word. Then he stood rigidly to attention in front of her desk, eyes fixed on the window behind her head.

"Since I arrived at this Consulate, Constable Fraser, I have been more than patient with your eccentricities. I have overlooked your maverick approach to cases. I have even allowed you to continue with your unauthorized liaison work with the Chacago Police Department but I have finally had enough. You are allowing your obsession with Ameriacn crime affect your work. You are never here. You have an office that you use for nothing other than sleeping in. I won't allow…" Fraser listened to the first part of Thatcher's lecture but, once he'd gotten the gist of it, he allowed his mind to wander.

He'd heard this speech – or a variation of it – a lot in the last week. At least once a day the Inspector had called him in and ranted at him about his attention to duty. Or rather his inattention to duty.

And he was starting to worry. Inspector Thatcher had never been the easiest boss to work for. But recently things had been different – they had reached an understanding. Or so he had thought. But for the past week things had reverted back to the way they had been when she first arrived. He kept waiting on her firing him again. And he didn't understand it – as far as he knew he had done nothing to bring her wrath down on him like this.

Keeping one ear on her rant – in case she said anything that needed a reply – he let his mind wander over the last few weeks. He came up blank. Other than the event on the train that he wasn't supposed to think about, nothing unusual had happened. But clearly_ something_ had happened. The Inspector had changed, grown angrier, and was looking miserable and brittle. So the only conclusion he could reach was that whatever was going on had nothing to do with him. But that still didn't explain…Suddenly his brain sent him an urgent message and he refocused his attention on his boss.

"I said you're dismissed! Leave! Now! And remember what I said." Fraser saluted.

"Yes, Sir!" He swivelled and marched out of the office, still pondering the mystery of Thatcher's odd behaviour. This couldn't be allowed to continue. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. Or – looking at her worn, strained face – how much more she could take. Something had to be done. He needed a plan.


End file.
